


A Persian Rug of No Importance

by sadlygrove



Series: Persian Rug [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/sadlygrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turkey/Greece on a Persian rug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Persian Rug of No Importance

It's a Saturday night, and who says you've got to go out and get piss-drunk every time a Saturday night shows up? Turkey's got a book to finish, a plate of oil and vinegar with some nice pieces of bread, and a fire roaring just beyond his toes. There's really nothing left to be desired, and he's just about to put a delectable slice of bread in the oil when his doorbell rings, ruining the quiet in his cozy living room. Turkey frowns; the doorbell rings yet again, and he has to set his book and bread to the side. By the fourth ring, he's swearing he'll deck whoever the hell it is on the other side of that door. "What!?" he snarls, yanking the door open to Greece lounging in the door jamb.

Beryl-colored eyes blink at him, unflinching in the face of Turkey's snarl. "Pay him." And that's all Greece says, no 'hello', no 'sorry to bother you', no 'did I interrupt something?' Just "Pay him," and Turkey then notices the other man isn't lounging on the door's frame, he's leaning on it like it's the last stable thing in the world and there's a taxi down the sidewalk.

"You're drunk." Turkey can't even fathom it so it comes out like a statement and not as a question when Greece brushes past, into the house. The younger man grumbles something about a bar and Turkey notices the cab driver getting out of his car with a scowl on his face. He tries to be angry when he pays off the driver, really, but Turkey's still too preoccupied with the thought of a drunk Greece in his house to think about anything else at the moment. When he returns to his abode, he's half expecting some of his shit to be broken in pieces, but Greece is just leaning on the staircase, toeing off his sandals.

Turkey shuts the door behind him, hears the cab screech down the road as he flicks the lock into place. "You're drunk," he says again, putting a little more of a smirk into his voice.

"EU meeting--not that you would know how those go." Greece smiles a little bit at Turkey's scowl. "I ran out of money and no one would spot me. Cheap bastards." The brunette is practically hanging on the railing, eyes even more disinterested in life than usual.

"You're making excuses for coming here," Turkey points out.

"And you're a bastard," Greece points out.

"Brat."

"Geezer."

"Skank."

Greece just sticks out his tongue before swaying into the living room. "You're just mad we're not exclusive."

There's no retort to that which doesn't sound fake and forced so Turkey lets it slide, storing irritation like an animal stores food for the winter. He follows Greece back to the roaring fire where he's leaning over the end table and eying Turkey's discarded book, running a finger through the oil and vinegar. He brings the digit to his lips and Turkey watches him suck it, Greece humming as he shuts the book and loses Turkey's page. His attention flicks back to the taller man; "This is good quality." Of course Greece would know olive oil so easily; of course.

Turkey crosses his arms across his broad chest and cuts to the chase: "If you're going to stay here, it's not going to be for free."

"Of course not," Greece snorts, but he's turned away and Turkey can't see the look on his face. "Why else would I have come here?" With his back to Turkey, he takes off his white shirt slowly, lines of muscle and scars--most of which Turkey's put there, to tell the truth--dancing in the fire's glow. He's going to fuck Greece in front of that fire, right on the Persian carpet at their feet. But before that, there's this ritual, almost as intricate as the carpet, patterned with barbs and spite to cover up whatever lies underneath.

  
Shirt discarded, Greece comes to Turkey and simply stands in front of him, let's the man eye him up. He's so tall now--only a few centimeters shorter--and Turkey doesn't know how to feel about that. Things had been easier back then--he likes to tell himself that--but then Turkey's never done anything just because it was easy. The tough shit's got the best rewards anyway.

Roughly, Greece yanks Turkey's belt open, not breaking eye contact until he's got the fly down, fingers wandering under Turkey's shirt to his navel. Greece descends to his knees slowly, eyes darting back up when he's finally there. Turkey stares at him, his voice as flat as he can possibly make it; "None of those EU pigs gotta cock big enough for ya, brat?"

Something flashes in Greece's eyes before he gives a little shrug, breath playing hot over Turkey's clothed groin. "Germany, Spain... France sure knows how to use his, though, don't you think?" Turkey knows Greece could have his pick of the lot, and Greece knows how jealous Turkey gets. There's a tiny twitch of Greece's lips, and Turkey knows he's being teased by the sugary tone of his voice. "But I missed yours so much, really," he whispers.

Turkey's hands are fists, and it's the only way he can keep from backhanding Greece or just shoving his cock down his throat. He recognized his shortcomings, and Greece is one catalyst of many.

Greece gives one last hot breath that makes Turkey positively twitch before freeing his cock and taking it into his mouth willingly. Turkey's fists clench even tighter, nails biting into his palms and Greece wastes no time laving with his tongue, eyelashes fluttering shut. His fingers are on Turkey's hipbones now, thumbs brushing over the skin as he dips his head, holding Turkey's member with nothing but his mouth and throat. A shudder pulls through the standing man, and he wants to put his fingers in that brown hair bobbing at his hips but doesn't want the sudden bite that may follow. So he's gonna be polite--a damn gentleman--and stand there, watching Greece suck his cock and lick his lips when he finally does pull back. Greece is tormenting him, Turkey knows it, showing him what they could have had, if only things had been a little different.

Greece practically crawls up Turkey's body and kisses him; his lips are damp from saliva and his breath tastes like he's drank the whole damned bar dry. His abs trap Turkey's hard-on between them as he wraps his arms around the taller man's neck, raking his hands through Turkey's hair. Figuring that's permission enough, Turkey growls into Greece's mouth and grabs tanned hips, palms working downwards to grab Greece's ass through his jeans.

Greece is on his toes, moaning like he'll never admit to sober--sober of alcohol or lust--and ripping off Turkey's shirt, buttons torn astray. Turkey's still got a tight grip on his ass and he's half expecting Greece to leap up into his hold like the time they fucked in the Aegean Sea. But instead he pulls back, lips swollen and looks at Turkey through a haze of brown bangs and glazed eyes--"Fuck me."--and pulls Turkey down to the Persian rug.

Those are Turkey's favorite words.

He's busy getting his pants off and doesn't notice that Greece has grabbed the bottle of oil until he shoves it into Turkey's hands. Turkey stares at it for a moment and misses Greece sliding from his jeans, groaning once his neglected cock is free. It's a testament to how drunk Greece must be--or how drunk he must think he is--when he pushes Turkey to kneel and gets on all fours, taking the man's dark cock between his lips once more. Turkey shivers, finally runs a hand through the brat's hair and watches as Greece swallows his cock with a soft moan. Their shadows are connected on the Persian rug.

Turkey finds it in himself to open the bottle and drizzle oil down Greece's back--he inhales a sharp breath through his nose--and drags his fingers through it. Slowly, fingers and oil tracing down the curve of spine, Turkey reaches the crevice and circles once before pushing inside.

There's a pause as Greece groans then sucks even harder, prompting Turkey to add another digit and then another still. He knows how Greece likes it, wonders if anyone else knows this well. Turkey taught him, after all.

Slowly, mustering all the patience he has, Turkey works his fingers as Greece moans around his cock until he gasps and releases it----there. Turkey rubs again and the brat is absolutely mewling, rocking back into the fingers. He looks up at Turkey through heavy-lidded eyes and it's a good thing his cock isn't in Greece's mouth anymore; as it stands, that look is making it difficult not to come all over Greece's face. They stare at one another and it's a bit too much, a bit too unlike them so they break it.

Turkey removes his fingers and drags his palm up Greece's back, collecting oil in his hand for his cock. The brat's already rolling onto his back and telling Turkey to hurry the fuck up, so he obliges and grabs the man's legs and bends him back, sliding his slick cock into Greece without any further pretext. And he holds it there, balls deep, and Greece groans, fingers looking for purchase on the rug. Turkey moves out slowly, holds it--notices how Greece's hair looks in the fire's light--and slides back in inch by inch. This time when he slides back out, he takes note of the carpet's blue ornaments and how beautiful Greece looks with it as a backdrop. It's breath-taking and he can't handle it, so instead Turkey watches his cock slide in and out slowly, opening Greece wide until the man all but snarls: "Stop screwing around and fuck me like you--" He stops short of the full sentence, and Turkey glances up with a smirk tugging on his lips. "Used to?"

Through his lust, Greece can still manage a pretty scowl. "Mean it."

Turkey stares at him, face perfectly blank. "I still have the mask."

Greece's face is just as blank now: "How dare you," he whispers, and Turkey slams into him. Greece screams, and it's not a bad scream, so Turkey slams into him--"Harder!"--again and again--"More!"--bending him almost in half--"Do it harder!" Turkey's muscles tighten, he's really deep in it now, and he obliges Greece's every wish as he leans forward and kisses him with an eerie gentleness that contrasts the wicked thrusts. When he pulls back, Greece looks like he's about ready to sob, but the look vanishes quickly and changes into a glare.

Turkey glares right back and suddenly stops, pulls out and all but flips Greece and drags his ass up, gripping those hips hard enough to bruise. Greece starts to curse, but Turkey puts his cock back in Greece's ass and cuts the curse short; there will be burns on Greece's knees and hands tomorrow, Turkey will make sure of it.

Greece groans, pants, bites his lip when he's not saying Turkey's name--"Sadiq! Sadiq, Sadiq I--"--and Turkey suspects that it's time to be a benevolent master. One hand goes for Greece's neglected cock, the other brushes back brown locks at the nape of Greece's neck and quickly counts the scars there as he fucks him. There are no more, no less than the last time. Satisfied, Turkey leans forward and slams all the way into Greece and bites the back of his neck hard enough to draw blood and make the brat come in his hand with a shattering yell.

Greece's body pulses around Turkey and it's almost enough to make the man come. He licks Greece's blood from his teeth and offers him his other hand. Greece laps at it like milk from a saucer, and when he bites down on the man's palm Turkey finally comes in long spurts that shake him. It could be what he wanted it to be--mean what he wanted it to mean--if only it wasn't too late.

When his brain gets a little less mushy, Turkey finds that he is exhausted. He pulls back and out slowly, leaving Greece to inspect his wounds as Turkey grabs the pillow and blanket from the couch. On second thought, he grabs the plate of bread and oil too; he's hungry for it. Turkey sits at the fire and tosses the blanket to Greece, offering him the plate. Greece shakes his head and Turkey shrugs; "Suit yourself," before finally bringing a piece of it to his mouth. It's delicious; he has earned it.

Greece has the blanket around his hips and he yawns, letting his head fall to Turkey's lap and he promptly passes out. Turkey finishes the bread and casts a longing glance at his book on the table, absently running fingers through Greece's hair and tracing the faint scars on the back of his neck. This is his own doing, and he's not sure if he can ever get it undone.


End file.
